


the secret ingredient (is love, but don't tell)

by milominderbinder



Series: maia's shameless fic a day in the month of may [15]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Baking, Childhood Memories, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-15
Updated: 2014-05-15
Packaged: 2018-01-25 09:43:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1644242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/milominderbinder/pseuds/milominderbinder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mickey and Ian bake a cake for Carl's birthday.</p><p>It brings up some memories.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the secret ingredient (is love, but don't tell)

“He’s _your_ fuckin’ brother, I don’t see why the fuck I’m doing this.”

Ian rolls his eyes as he pulls a bag of flour down from the top shelf.  It’s Carl’s thirteenth birthday the next day, and Ian had volunteered to make the cake - pretty much just so he could avoid all the _other_ jobs Fiona was dishing out for them to get ready for the party, most of which involved long and convoluted ventures around the city.  Cake making, while messy and not Ian’s area of expertise by any means, was the only thing Ian could accomplish without leaving the house - something which vastly appealed.  Nobody had actually even _asked_ Mickey to help with the task, but he was there by Ian’s side anyway, counting out ingredients and pretending to grumble.

“Because you want to get laid tonight,” Ian says charitably, letting Mickey keep a little of his pride.  It’s enough that he knows how obviously excited Mickey is to bake a cake; Mickey doesn’t need to _know_ he knows.

\--

“Can you get the scales?”

“Where are they?  In the bathroom?”

“No, Mick, the _baking_ scales.  Y’know, to measure ingredients and shit?”

“Well where the fuck are _they,_ fucker _.”_

"Why the fuck would you think we needed  _bathroom scales_ for cooking?"

\--

When Ian had turned thirteen, Fiona'd bought him a cake.  She’d scrimped and saved her babysitting money, waitressing money, and dog walking money for weeks; every penny that didn’t go towards the bills which seemed to be constantly piling up on them went towards Ian’s cake, and the penknife which was his present.  He hadn’t had a party, but it had been a sticky sunny day, so Lip and Fiona had taken him to the park, with his cake, and Fiona had lit a candle on top of it as they sat underneath a tree, and told him to _make a wish._

Ian at thirteen already knew he was different.  Sitting with his siblings in the sun, laughing even as the worries itched under all their skin, he blew out his candle and wished he _wasn’t._

Later, Lip gave Ian his first joint.  They smoked it together in the van in the back yard, staring up at the stars and not talking, much.

Ian decided he liked being high.  He also decided, in his weed-induced clarity of mind, that he wanted to take back his wish.

Being different was dangerous, but Ian didn’t want to be someone else.  He liked who he was.

\--

“Okay, how many of these chocolate chips should I put in?”

Mickey stares for a moment, and then upends the whole bag into the mixture.

“Well, that’s one method,” Ian says, setting down the cookbook and staring at Mickey, unimpressed.

“There’s no such thing as too much chocolate in a chocolate cake,” Mickey replies wisely.

\--

When Mickey turned thirteen, Mandy stole him a cupcake from the school cafeteria.  It was chocolate, but not the nice kind - too powdery, and it had pink icing which was smushed at the side from where it had been shoved in her bag.  She gave it to him as they walked home together.  He split it in half, and gave her the bigger chunk.

That evening, Iggy had a friend over.  Only it wasn’t for him.  It was a girl, who Mickey recognised from the grade above him at school - he didn’t know her name, but he knew guys talked about her, called her slutty and also called her hot.

Mickey at thirteen knew he was different.  He knew he didn’t like the girl’s wide hips and bulging breasts and long hair.  But he also knew he couldn’t tell anyone that, and when Iggy said, _happy birthday, Mick,_ with a lewd grin, and the girl giggled at him, Mickey knew what he was supposed to do.

It was winter, and cold in the Milkovich house, since their heating had been cut off.  Mickey took the girl to his room, and they fucked with most of their clothes on, buried under the sheets of his bed.  She moaned a lot, and kissed his neck with her sticky lips.

Mickey closed his eyes, and came quickly.

\--

“Olive oil’s the same thing as vegetable oil, right?”

“No, fuckhead.  It tastes, like, way stronger.”

“Oh.  Well, it’s the only oil we have, what the fuck should I do about it?”

Mickey pauses, thinks for a second.

“Okay, use olive oil, but then add a shitload more sugar.  That’ll hide the taste of ass.”

“I thought you _liked_ the taste of ass.”

A wicked grin.  For a minute, cake making activities cease.

\-- 

The first time Ian baked a cake, he was four, and it was with Monica.  They didn’t just bake one cake, either; they baked six, Ian laughing and covering himself from head to toe in flour, Monica talking at a hundred miles a minute, singing along to songs that Ian couldn’t hear, dancing him around, seeming like the brightest person on earth.  She told him they couldn’t eat the cakes, yet, that they were _saving_ them, because in a few days there were going to host a party and invite everyone in the whole neighborhood.

A week later, the cakes had all gone stale, and Monica wouldn’t get out of bed.

\--

“Mick, this batter is fucking _liquid._ This is not normal cake-batter consistency.  There’s no way we did this right.”

“Man, I’m telling you, that’s how much water we were _supposed to put in._ It’ll like, evaporate or some shit when we put it in the oven, turn into a proper cake.”

“Maybe we could just serve it to Carl like a smoothie.”

“It’ll set in the fucking oven, man. _”_

“He could use a straw, he’d probably think it was funny.”

“It’s _supposed to_ _fucking look like that!_ ”

\--

The first time Mickey baked a cake was for Mandy’s ninth birthday.

Her first birthday after their mom died.

Their mom had never been good for much, but one thing she was always good for was birthdays.  They never had much in the way of presents, but she’d go all out in the ways she could - giving them the day off school, creating scavenger hunts with clues through the whole neighborhood, dressing up like a pirate and telling them scary stories in a blanket fort at night.  She’d also make cakes.  Amazing fucking cakes.

On Mandy’s ninth birthday, none of that shit happened.  She went to school in the morning, wearing one of Tony’s grey hoodies which hung well past her knees, looking like she’d never been more miserable.  Mickey’s whole heart had hurt for her.

So he skipped school, and baked her a cake.

When she came home that night, the thing was sat on the table.  It was maybe the most pathetic attempt of anyone ever to bake; the thing was lopsided, burnt around the edges but runny in the middle, only half-covered in icing because Mickey’d run out.  He scowled when she saw it and stopped in her tracks, tried to pretend like he didn’t even care - like maybe he’d had nothing to do with it at all, because he felt bad about how _utterly_ shit it was.

Then Mandy had burst into tears, and hugged him.

He never did decide if it was worth it or not.

\--

“You definitely set the timer for twenty five minutes?”

“ _Yes,_ I set the fuckin’ timer right.”

“I’m just saying, like, maybe fucking while we waited wasn’t the best idea because I lose track of time when you do that thing with your mouth so maybe it’s actually only been - ”

“You _watched_ me set the timer, okay, it’s been twenty five fuckin’ minutes.”

“Then why is the cake still _liquid,_ Mickey?”

Mickey pauses for a moment.  He can feel the heat radiating out of the oven, so he can’t blame it on that.

“The recipe must be fucked,” he says.  “Put it in for another fifteen.  It’ll be done by then for sure.”

\--

The first time Ian ate a birthday cake with Mickey, it was neither of their birthdays.

But to Ian, it kind of felt like it was.  Because he was in the midst of falling head over heels in love, and that made every moment spent with Mickey feel like the best birthday ever, rolled into one with Christmas and Easter and summer vacation and some bizarre kind of hallucinogenic trip.

The first time they ate a birthday cake together, they stole it from the store because they’d been smoking weed and making out all afternoon, and somehow, it seemed like the sensible thing to do. They ate it in the van in Ian’s back yard, laughing and smoking even more weed and kissing when the mood struck them.

Later, when he was balls deep in Mickey inside that same van, Ian wondered if it was possible to transplant memories.  He wanted that day to take the place of every birthday he’d ever had.  It was better than _all_ of them.

\--

“Mick, this cake is in like, fifty different pieces.  Lets just give up and get one from the store.  I have eight bucks left from my last shift at the club, we can swing it.”

“Don’t be a fuckin’ idiot,” Mickey says, brandishing a chocolate covered wooden spoon more aggressively than most other people could manage.  “We made ten times too much icing anyway, we’ll just stick it back together with that.”

He has a look of determination in his eyes which actually kind of scares Ian to look at.  Sighing, Ian gives in, and sets about smushing the broken up cake into a vaguely circular shape so Mickey can paint it with butter-icing.

When they’re done, the thing still looks like shit.  Ian thinks it’s kind of hilarious, but Mickey has a frown between his brows, is staring at the cake like it’s his personal nemesis or something.

Ian swipes his finger through the lumpy icing on the side of the cake, and then, very slowly, raises his hand up to wipe it against Mickey’s lips.

For a moment, stillness.

Then they’re crashing together in a slow but _intense_ kiss, Ian backing Mickey into the counter and sucking on his lips, tasting the sweetness of the icing but also just the sweetness of _Mickey_ in general, the unbearable pleasure of kissing him, which Ian can’t ever seem to get enough of.

Eventually, he forces himself to pull away.  Mickey still has his eyes closed, and his expression looks _blissful._

“Let’s just throw a bunch of M&Ms on top,” Ian says, turning back to the cake and grinning.  “That’ll hide _everything._ ”

**Author's Note:**

> for the fic-a-day-in-may challenge.
> 
> based on a true story. and by that i mean the true story of how it's my brother's seventeenth tomorrow and i baked him a cake and every single thing described in present-day ian and mickey's cake baking here is the story of the cake i made today bc _wow_ i'm a shit baker. and this was supposed to be a happy fic based on my weird day but some sad moments crept in OOPS
> 
> you can see the cake that ian and mickey /slash me/ made [here](http://s854.photobucket.com/user/milominderbindered/media/cake/unnamed_zps14a2cc28.jpg.html?sort=3&o=0) if you want, and revel in it's awfulness and feel better about your own abilities
> 
> send me prompts and stuff on tumblr, as i am clearly running out of ideas: [mickeymilk](http://mickeymilk.tumblr.com).


End file.
